Defining Moments
by RJDaae
Summary: Young Christine's father teaches her some French. Written for the Mort Rouge spring phic contest. Oneshot. Please R&R!


This one-shot was written for the Mort Rouge spring phic contest, on the theme of 'Spring'.

Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, not me.

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Defining Moments

"Pappa, what does this say?"

Jonas set down the violin he had been tuning, and turned to his daughter, who was holding a slim leatherbound book in her outstretched hand. "I tried very hard to read the name, but I don't know these words." Her eyes were shining with frustrated tears, and she wiped at them stubbornly with her tiny clenched fist. "I tried so hard… I won't ever learn to read now."

"Shh, it's alright, Kristin," he said, gathering her to his lap. "Even if you were the best reader in Uppsala you wouldn't be able to read that book. I couldn't even have read it when I was your age."

The child looked up in wonder; her Pappa had been unable to do something? Her tears ceased as her curiosity grew. "Really, Pappa? Why?"

The man chuckled. "Why, that book is in French, child."

"French?"

"Yes, it's a language that they speak in other countries."  
"What's that?"

Jonas thought for a moment, trying to find a way to explain the intricacies of language to his daughter, when even he didn't entirely understand.  
"Well, there are other places where people live, aren't there?" Kristin nodded. "In those places, people talk different ways. They have different words for things than we do." He had a sudden idea. "Kristin, what kind of animal is Söt?" he indicated the ball of calico fur nestled at the hearth.

"Söt? She's a _katt_."

"Yes, but to a French person, she'd be a 'chat', and to an English person, she'd be a 'cat'."

Kristin's eyes grew wide as she silently repeated the words to herself. She looked up again, "Do you know all the French words, Pappa?"

"No, love. I know quite a few, though, from when I was younger. My Mamma and Pappa took me and my brothers to France, and I learned some there." He smiled at the memory, even as it was overshadowed by the memory of his brother's death.

"What other words do you know?" the child said, snapping her father out of his brief reverie.

"Well, our names, for one. My name, 'Jonas', to a Frenchman, would be 'Jean'."

Kristin's face lit up, and she pulled on her father's shirt cuff excitedly. "What would my name be in French? Tell me!"

Jonas thought for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. He reached for a pencil that lay on a side table, writing each letter carefully. "Your, name, dear," he finished and held the paper where she could see it, "would be… 'Christine'."

The girl took the paper, holding it close to her nose and smiling in delight. "It's so pretty!" she exclaimed, tracing the curved capital 'C' with her index finger. Momentarily distracted, Kristin dropped the book that she had been carrying, and it felt to the floor with a soft thud. "Oh," she said, climbing off his lap to retrieve it.

She held it up again, studying the letters carefully. "So this is in French, too?"

"Yes. Would you like to know what it says?"

"Yes, please Pappa." She watched him, in awe of his apparent mastery of language, as he opened to the title page and began to look it over. "_Le Ressort Cassé_," he finally announced. Kristin looked up quizzically, confused by the foreign sound of it.

"It sounds pretty; what does it mean?"

"It means 'The Broken Spring'."

"Oh…" Kristin took the book back from her father, along with the piece of paper with her name written on it, and sat down on the floor, clearly deep in thought. Jonas returned to tuning his violin, but didn't let himself become quite as absorbed in it as before; he was sure his daughter would return with more questions eventually.

He was correct. "Pappa," said Kristin, from her spot on the floor.

"Come up here where I can see you better, child."

She stood, walking over to sit on her father's lap. "Pappa, how can spring be broken?"

"Someone probably over-wound it." She looked up in surprise, and he could tell from her confused expression she didn't understand.

"But, Pappa, spring is a time. You don't wind time… Unless it means a clock. But watches aren't spring: they don't have flowers and rabbits and fairs." Jonas smiled; she was so precious.

"That isn't the type of spring that it is speaking of."

"There's more than one?"

"Yes, there's quite a few. 'Spring' can mean a season, or a creek, or jumping, or a lot of things."

"That's silly," Kristin said, but she didn't look very amused. "It's too confusing. Why isn't there a different word for every thing?"

'I suppose that there are just so many things in the world that they ran out of names for them all."

"Like how Fru Walhstrom had to name two of her sons both 'Heinrich'?"

"Yes," he laughed, thinking of the woman, with her veritable flock of sons. "Most people don't have to worry about running out of names for their children, but it's more difficult when you have thirteen of them."

Kristin's gaze returned to the book, and she said softly. "What does 'spring' mean in this book?"

"It's about a spring in a watch. The person who owned the watch wound it too tightly, and it broke."

"Then what happened?"

"He was late for all his appointments, and he missed his supper, and he missed his bedtime." He looked pointedly out the window, where the sun was beginning to set in the western sky. Kristin followed his gaze, and frowned.

"Aww, Pappa, do I _have_ to go to sleep now? I want to stay out here and learn more French…"

"Well, you could… but you'd miss your story."

At those words, Kristin scrambled to her feet, rushing towards her bedroom. Jonas followed, laughing softly. When he caught up, he found her already in bed, the covers pulled up to her nose. "Do I still get a story?" she asked anxiously. Jonas kneeled by the bedside, stroking the hair back from her forehead and placing a gentle kiss there.

"Yes, of course." He thought for a moment, and had just opened his mouth to speak when Kristin sat up again.

"Pappa?"

"Yes?"

"Can we go to France one day? And then we can talk French to real French people!" she exclaimed.

"Maybe one day, my dear. We might even go to Paris. They're building a giant theatre there now, and we'll go see a real opera there!" Kristin closed her eyes, focusing on the beautiful dream of Paris, but then opened her eyes suddenly, looking even more hopeful than before.

"Will I sing there, too?" she asked softly. Jonas ran his hand gently across the top of Kristin's blonde locks.

"Once you have heard the Angel, no theatre on Earth will be able to refuse you." Kristin smiled again, her eyes closing as she laid back down. She was already nearly asleep as her father began his story.

"Little Lotte loved singing, and dancing, and drawing, and learning. What Lotte most wanted to learn was French, so that she could sing opera for the Angel, in his sparkling silver theatre..."

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